Margaret. Well, anyhow, it means something different when I write a novel from what it does when you write one.
Gilbert. Yes ...?
Margaret. You see, you're a free man—you haven't got to steal the hours in which you can be an artist; and you don't risk your whole future.
Gilbert. Oh ... do you?
Margaret. I have! Half an hour ago Clement left me because I owned up to him that I had written a novel.
Gilbert. Left you? For ever?
Margaret. I don't know. It is possible. He went away in anger. He is unaccountable—I can't tell beforehand what he will decide about me.
Gilbert. Ah ... so he forbids you to write! He won't allow the girl he loves to make any use of her brains—oh, that's splendid! That's the fine flower of the nation! Ah ... yes. And you—aren't you ashamed to experience the same sensations in the arms of such an idiot that you once ...
Margaret. I forbid you to talk like that about him! You don't understand him.
Gilbert. Ha ...!